


Benefits

by Jinxgirl



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, F/M, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-21 07:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21296075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jinxgirl/pseuds/Jinxgirl
Summary: In the midst of what appears to be a possible apocalyptic circumstance, Puck and Santana choose to help each other forget, but is there really such a thing as meaningless contact?
Relationships: Santana Lopez/Noah Puckerman





	Benefits

“That’s pathetic, Lopez.” 

One eyebrow lifted, Noah Puckerman regarded the young woman with his mouth quirked upward in one corner, feet spread casually apart in a wide stance, arms crossed over his chest. Even with his nonchalant pose, however, he was standing close to her, watching her more closely than he let on, making sure that he would be able to notice and help her, should she tire too much and need his assistance. 

From her position on her back on the workout bench, Santana glowered, not turning her head to look at him full on but rather simply shifting her eyes briefly to the side. She pushed her legs forward one more time, with renewed effort, pushing forward the leg press’s weights as far as she could make them go, but again was not able to straighten her legs out all the way. Puck shifted slightly closer, even as his smirk lingered, and seeing it, she raised one shaking hand to flip him off, even as her other hand tightly gripped the seat, attempting to give herself increased resistance to work off from.

“Fuck you, Puckerman,” she muttered, but she was breathless, no real venom in her voice, and her next effort at pushing the weights forward was weaker than the last, her legs almost crashing back towards the bench.

“Hey, name a time and place,” was Puck’s not entirely joking reply, and when she flipped him off a second time, he grinned, noticing the small tremor of a smile that passed her lips too at the irony of her chosen gesture. 

Sucking in her breath sharply, Santana blew a straggling strand of dark hair out of her face and gritted her teeth, appearing to be bracing herself to push forward again, but Puck took another step forward, laying light but firm hands on her shoulders. 

“Take a break, Lopez. You know you gotta slow it down a sec when you start resorting to lifting a finger instead of trying to bite mine off for your comebacks.”

“I was thinking of biting other parts but it would leave a sour taste in my mouth,” she shot back, but her voice is still strained, her chest heaving as she tries to regulate her breaths, and she doesn’t shrug out from beneath Puck’s hands, nor does she try to push the weights out in front of her again. 

Puck leaves his hands on her shoulders, noticing and somewhat discomfited by the feel of her prominent bones beneath, and keeps his voice light as he responds.

“Whatever, Lopez. Take a break…you’re gonna kill yourself, and then whose boobs am I gonna stare at to brighten up this place?”

Santana rolled her eyes, but he caught her small, somewhat amused smile before she changed it to a smirk, and she still wasn’t removing herself from his grasp. 

“And you wonder how the hell you’re single. Like you can see much of anything in this place anyway, what, was it your goal to make it grim and dreary as possible, so when you come down here and sweat it out, we can imagine we’re in hell that much realistically?”

Puck looked around, having to acknowledge to himself, if not aloud to her, that she had some validity to her observation. The basement of his parents’ home had not been cleaned in years, dusted ever, and the single lightbulb dangling from a string from the ceiling didn’t exactly brightly illuminate its interior. The concrete floor and unpainted walls gave it a cold and cheerless look and feel- not exactly a place that any chicks had ever wanted to hang out, even now, under their current circumstances. 

As Santana sank back against the slanted support bench of the leg press, catching her breath, Puck leaned back slightly against it as well, turning slightly away from her to look around himself, never having really observed the room as an outsider or a female might. It was the first time that Santana, or any girl, had come down to the makeshift gym Puck had scrounged together within the past month, and he had hardly tried to make the room look inviting or even particularly clean. It had a purpose, and that was all that really mattered to him.

Much of the weights and equipment were older, scavenged from abandoned homes, the school gym, and even taken directly from stores, in the case of smaller weights, but they worked well enough, even if they weren’t top quality and looked beaten up. He wasn’t looking to impress anyone, and he doubted Santana really cared what any of it looked like either; it was something to say, something to try to make this all seem a little more normal, to give themselves at least the pretense of a little more control. But in all reality, it wasn’t what either of them said, but what they did and could do that would really make a difference- and that was exactly why they were here in Puck’s hastily assembled gym on a Saturday morning, trying to improve what they could do and would be able to do in the future. Taking care of their bodies, building their strength and endurance could no longer be a casual past time or simply a byproduct of caring about appearance. It now could be the difference between life and death. And though he suspected it had been touch and go for Santana, at least, for a while, neither one now was ready to die.

It had all seemed to be isolated incidents, at first, ones that could be explained away by mass hysteria, drug outbreaks, or weird diseases, just like that summer a few years ago, where people on bath salts had started attacking people and trying to eat their faces. That was what everyone had assumed at first, that the biters, as they had quickly come to be called, were simply high or mentally ill. Crazy and dangerous, to be sure, but not contagious- needing contained, but not quarantined. 

It had been a dangerous assumption, one that had cost thousands, probably millions of lives across the country, and possibly spreading to others as well. It had started in the big cities, with the biters biting and then infecting in growing numbers, and then trickled down through the smaller states and towns as well, until it seemed that everyone knew someone, or many, many someones, who had been infected, and everyone was in danger. There was little known about the disease except that it appeared to be passed on something like AIDS- through bodily fluids such as saliva or blood- and that although it didn’t appear to be deadly to the ones infected, it did change them, their brains, their actions, and their appearance in what seemed to be a permanent way. Those infected appeared to lose all memories of themselves as people, of their personalities, pasts, and presents, and to exist moment by moment, like feral animals simply surviving. Surviving, and showing great violence to any who happened to get in their way.

They weren’t dead, and normal means of killing would take them down, so they could not be called zombies, but it wouldn’t be an inaccurate comparison. The problem was that as scientists, doctors, and psychiatrists desperately searched for an explanation, much less a cure to the fast spreading condition, more and more were falling prey to it, and it was becoming more and more difficult for even the smallest towns to be safe. 

At this point most of the cities had been barricaded, with heavy gates and walls erected, no one allowed in or out without explicit procedures of admission. Lima, Ohio was no exception. Just over two weeks ago the final touches of the wall around the city had been completed, 25 feet high, but there were only so many guards, and no one could be entirely sure that it would not be overtaken, or that there were not infected still within the city walls. It would be near suicide to try to leave, but to wait it out from the inside sometimes felt like a slower death all the same.

And people had died. People they knew, their friends, their friends’ families. Not everyone who had been living outside Lima, since graduation, had made it back within its closing walls before it was shut back down, and with the spotty cell phone reception as of late, there wasn’t a way to be sure that all of them were okay. Puck had made it back from California, and Kurt, Rachel, and Santana had been evacuated from New York City almost as soon as the city began to be overrun, and so some might consider them to be lucky. But Puck wouldn’t use that word lightly, not now. 

They were survivors so far, but this wasn’t a guarantee that they would be always. He wanted to be one of those who did, and this was the only way that he could think of to help up his odds…making sure he and whatever friends he could convince into it were as strong and forceful, in the face of any future assaults, as he could manage. Which meant gym. Gym, and getting weapons, but what he definitely had now was a gym.

Puck looked Santana over with a more critical eye, noticing not for the first time, and not without some discomfort, even sadness, how different she was in appearance than a few months before- diminished in more ways than one. While Puck had focused on improving his muscle mass almost as soon as the changes in the cities took place, putting all his helpless frustration and worries into action, she appeared to have done the opposite, and instead allowed herself to begin to literally shrink away. Puck had told himself that if he was strong enough, if he could run fast enough and fight hard enough, not only against the biters but also against his own brimming feelings, it would help insure his survival, and so far, he had seen no evidence to the contrary. 

He supposed he was one of the lucky ones, if a person could be called that anymore. His family was all there, those that counted- his mother, his sister Sarah, his half-brother Jake, and even Jake’s mother, all present and accounted for in Lima. He wasn’t sure about his father, but then, he had really bothered to cared to look or find out. 

But Puck was pretty sure that this wasn’t the case with Santana. She hadn’t mentioned anything about her family, which said volumes on its own, and he knew that she was staying with Quinn lately rather than in her own parents’ home, or even with Brittany. He wasn’t sure why she seemed to be avoiding Brittany lately, other than that the blonde was still dating Sam, but he wasn’t one to analyze and certainly not one to ask. Neither did he ask about her parents or her other family members. It would have been a line Puck couldn’t have crossed, either by her permission or of his own accord, and he was pretty sure she didn’t want to talk and he didn’t want to know her answer. 

One thing Santana Lopez had always been, even back in the days of middle school, with her scrawny legs, untamed hair straggling out of her ponytails, and training bras, was tough. She was a hard shell, always had been, unwilling to let others break beneath the walls she had worked so hard to put into place. Although Santana had always been more apt than Puck to publicly show emotion, the only tears he had ever witnessed from her, until Glee, had always been over something ridiculous, like being denied her way or losing a possession- not true expressions of deep emotion, because with Santana, that would have been a revelation of self unpermitted. She was like him in this way, and maybe it was one of the reasons they had always seemed to shift between a shared understanding and a shared irritation with each other. 

And she still was tough, regardless of whatever may have happened to her, regardless of how she had changed. She still had a tongue on her- even through the brief workout so far Santana had been swearing, flipping Puck off whenever she could manage to lift a finger to do so, and glaring up at him every time she seemed to feel he was pushing too hard, her dark eyes narrowed almost to slits, glinting fiercely. But even so she was straining on the machines, breathing heavily in a way he was sure she would not have been a few months ago, her forehead beaded with sweat, slickened strands of hair falling out of her ponytail and clinging to her neck and cheeks. Her face was scrunched up, her body shaking visibly, and as Puck stepped forward slowly, again laying hands on her shoulders and lightly digging his thumbs into the hard knotted muscles at the base of her neck, he felt her tense up beneath him, her shoulder bones so easily felt and fragile beneath his hands that he frowned before he could stop himself.

Santana had always been small, of course, and she still had her perfect breasts- whoever her surgeon had been, he had known his stuff. But they looked out of proportion and somehow wrong now on her tiny frame, even to someone like Puck, who was never one to criticize large chests. Santana had clearly lost weight, at least ten pounds, and her formerly toned, slimly muscled limbs now appeared stringy and sinewy, lacking the strength and power they had had before. Her hair was limp and somewhat dull in sheen, the strands nearest her face slicked with sweat, and there were dark circles beneath her eyes, her cheeks appearing sunken. She looked small and shrunken to Puck in a way she never had before. No matter how physically small Santana really was, she had always seemed to take up more space than she actually did, the boldness of her persona and the way she held herself making up for her true size.

This wasn’t the case now. Today, and the day before too, when Puck had seen her, Santana only looked small and tired, and he found himself swallowing, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he squeezed her shoulders again, then released her before speaking up awkwardly. 

“You’re eating alright, right, ‘Tana?”   
At this comment, Santana sat upright fast, swinging her legs over the bench and then standing entirely, as though feeling the need to look Puck in the eyes as much as was possible, given that he was over half a foot taller than her. Arms crossed over her chest, she glowered up at him, her tone defensive as she responded. 

“If your idea of “eating alright” means consuming 6 hotdogs per meal, along with a large burger and fries and three Slushees, then no, I guess not. If you’re asking if I’m consuming food instead of peeling celery sticks and then puking them up, then yes, I guess I am. Why the hell are you asking is my question to you.”

“Because your bones could leave puncture marks on my hands if you shrugged too fast,” he lifted an eyebrow, his tone casual, even mocking, but he was watching her closely. 

An emotion flickered in her eyes, something Puck could not quite identify and was not entirely sure he had seen, and then she was rolling her eyes, banishing any hopes of understanding what had just passed over them. 

“Yeah, well you look like you’re going for that wannabe steroid wrestler look, so maybe you should grow our your handlebar mustache and sideburns and get a spray on tan and worry about popping your muscles like overly full balloons before you comment on me.”

A retort was on the tip of Puck’s tongue, but when he looked at her again he saw her eyes shifting downward as soon as she had finished her sentence, saw her chest rise and fall with a slow, steadying breath, and he checked himself, instead turning to get the towel and bottle of water he had placed aside for her earlier. Handing it to her, he gestured for her to drink, noticing again that her hands were shaking as she untwisted the gap, that she dribbled some water down her neck and chin as she drank thirstily. As she takes the towel and swipes at her face, then over her chest, Puck’s eyes follow her every move in spite of himself.

“Hot,” he blurts, an insinuation more than a question, and as Santana lifts an eyebrow, then smirks, he smiles back, becoming more serious when she begins to drink again.

“You were doing alright at first, but you gotta build up the strength in your legs, even more than in your arms,” he commented as she wiped her mouth, then took another long swallow from the bottle. “Every day you need to be stretching and walking and working up to running. Those legs gotta be for more than looking hot, Lopez, you gotta be able to run hard and fast and far if you need to.”

“I was better today than yesterday,” Santana muttered, setting down the water bottle on the bench and stretching thin arms over her head, her baggy t-shirt barely lifting its hem. “I’ll be better tomorrow too, no big thing.”

“Well keep it up, can’t take a single day off. Can’t afford to,” Puck told her, then added, “And you gotta eat, Lopez. That’s not an option either, gotta put food in to get muscles out, right?”

He didn’t ask her why she wasn’t eating and why she had stopped working out, or even, from the looks of it, basically caring for herself for a time. He didn’t want to go there if they didn’t have to, and if Santana herself wasn’t willing. And in the end, it didn’t matter, at least in his mind. She was where she was today, and they could only work up from that point; what did the reasons behind it really matter, when they could all eventually be pointed back to the condition of the world around them?

Santana’s dark eyes slid towards him, and she shrugged one shoulder as her arms came back down, her tone casual, even as her gaze remained wary, guarded.

“Haven’t been hungry much. It’s not exactly appetite inducing, what’s been going on, you know.”

“Doesn’t matter if you’re hungry or not, you have to, ‘Tana,” Puck pressed. She was still standing with her arms crossed a few feet from him, and he stepped closer, lightly closing his wrist around her upper arm. His index finger and this thumb touched, completely enclosing the limb’s circumference. Looking down at it pointedly, he squeezed gently. “I mean, look at this. You’ve always been like, the size of a matchstick, but now we’re talking needles, and not the big syringe kind of the kind with yarn. The little puny ones that sew or whatever. You gotta start eating whether you want to or not.” 

He felt her muscles go tense beneath his hand, her spine stiffening noticeably as she drew herself up to her full height, and Santana broke his hold of her with her free hand, stepping back with a lifted chin and very defensive posture. She pointed at him with her left hand, her voice holding a note of warning. 

“Back off on this one, Puckerman. You don’t know shit.”

“I know that now’s not the time to be worrying about your friggin’ weight, of all things,” Puck retorted, deciding to come right out with it; there seemed to be no way of getting through to Santana, and he wasn’t exactly great with taking the time or energy to try to figure out how to talk to her more subtly as it was. It seemed pointless when you could just come out with what you wanted to say and save a lot of time and misunderstanding. “This is life or death here, Santana, literally, not a cheerleading competition or a fashion show. The world ain’t gonna end if you’re not the skinny person in every room, but your own life might.”

“Oh, fuck you, Puckerman, like you really fucking know me,” Santana snapped, and though there was genuine anger in the creases of her brow, he thought he saw a flicker of something else as well, something like hurt. “Yeah, I’m that stupid that I’m worried about losing weight right now, even though we all know damn well if the wall collapsed or the biters hauled ass over it, we could end up trapped in a basement for a few weeks without any food at all. Yeah, all I give a shit about is if I can fit into 00 jeans while we’re trapped down there fearing for our lives and our intact throat tendons. Well let’s see you fucking try to eat if everything you tasted was a damn corpse, let’s see you avoid losing weight if you basically were on an all liquid diet. Don’t fucking talk about shit you know nothing about.”

When Puck looked at her, he saw that her shoulders had slumped, that her lips were trembling before she quickly pressed them together into a thin line, breathing in audibly through her nose. Her eyes were wet, though no tears fell, and when he hesitated, then grunted a sorry, not sure exactly what she was talking about or even what he was apologizing for, he didn’t think at first that she was going to respond. But she did speak eventually, though her tone was gruff.

“Look…it’s not that I’m trying not to eat, okay? I really am trying. But…sometimes when I try to eat, it just…I think of the shit I’ve seen, on TV, and sometimes…you know, around….the biting, and the blood, and…” her voice trailed off, and she swallowed again, her face noticeably paler, her features strained, having lost any remaining traces of anger or irritation. She looked only sad, sad and scared and small as she picked up again. “I think of that and I just…can’t eat. I can’t swallow, and sometimes it seems like I’m…like I’m tasting someone’s skin. Or someone’s blood. And I can’t…well, would you be able to fucking eat?”

It was a horrifying description, one that Puck couldn’t imagine experiencing for himself. What he had seen on TV alone was enough to make a person physically sick if they let it get to them, so for her to be affected to the point that she was either letting her imagination completely take over, or else was literally hallucinating…it sounded horrible, and she was right, he couldn’t understand, nor did he know what to say.

“Damn, that…that sucks, San,” he said awkwardly, clearing his throat. 

He shifted his weight, thinking that it was probably the right moment to touch her, but unsure of in which way or for how long would be appropriate. But Santana wasn’t even looking at him. She had buried her face in the towel she was still holding, and he watched her shoulders move as she took a long, slow breath in, composing, before she finally lifted her face. There was no response from her to his apology, nor did she give one of her own. She didn’t reach for him or ask him to back away, or even further acknowledge what had just been said between them. Instead, she let her mouth quirk on one side, even without a genuine smile, and gestured around the basement’s interior.

“So what do you do all day then, Puckerman? Screw around getting even more muscley? Ya know, all work and no play means you’re probably not getting any, are you?”

She laughed, reaching out to poke at his bicep, but Puck just gave her a smile in return, letting a certain amount of cockiness show through. 

“Yeah, and you are?” he shot back, even as Santana grinned, raising her eyebrows back at him.

“Maybe I am.”

He doubted it, given her current appearance; she might be Santana Lopez, but a chick who only recently seemed to have returned to regular showering was likely not feeling much like sex any time recently. Skeptical, he continued to smirk at her, his tone indicating his cynicism at this response. 

“What, you and Q getting it on again, is that what you’re claiming here?”

He couldn’t hide his amusement when Santana’s mouth dropped, eyes widening, and she gawked at him, then snapped her mouth shut, trying too late and too ineffectively to cover up her reaction.

“What do you mean, again, you think we already have? Don’t know what locker room fantasies you got going, Puckerman, but-“

“Give it up, ‘Tana, I already know about your wedding fling,” Puck chuckled, shaking his head. “You got a big mouth when you’re drunk. And a lot of tears. My t-shirt’s ruined by all the snot flow you had going couple weeks back.”  
He could see her mind working, trying to puzzle out exactly what she had said when, and she lifted her chin again, rolling her eyes even as she tried to regain her dignity. “Whatever, Q probably told you anyway. I wouldn’t blame her, I’m pretty sure I’m the best she’s ever had, and for a straight Christian girl who probably douches with holy water after every time, that’s saying something…whatever, man. So whose the crazy chick you’re screwing these days?”

“It’s kinda an issue,” Puck admitted, willing now to be open about the truth now that he had successfully backed her into a corner. He shrugged, moving to sit on the bench Santana had abandoned and patting the space beside him for her to join him. She hesitated, then did so, her shoulder lightly touching his. “See, most of the crazy chicks either tried to leave town and got eaten, or else they’re clinging to their husbands for all they got. So I’m kinda high and dry as of late. Sucks.”

“Yes, it totally does,” Santana agreed with more fervor than he had expected, nodding her head emphatically and deliberately bumping her shoulder into his. “It’s making me crazy. Horny guys aren’t the only ones that have wet dreams at night when they ain’t getting any.”

“Be willing to help you out with that, Lopez, get some of that frustration off your…chest,” Puck smirked, his eyes deliberately roving down her form and pausing for a prolonged space of time on her breasts before he looked back up at her face. “That’s what friends are for, or whatever.”

Santana smirked back, rolling her eyes and giving his arm a little shove, but she didn’t separate herself from him, and in fact seemed to be smiling as well as smirking. 

“Of course. You have a dick and I’m totally hot, I wouldn’t expect anything less. Plus you already know how awesome I am in bed, I’m surprised you’re not throwing me down right here and now.”

“Think you got it twisted, Lopez,” Puck shot back, though he was smiling too. It felt good for this mindless, easy banter between them; it had been almost as long as it had been since he had sex. No one had been this relaxed, no one had been in the right frame of mind to just verbally spar, like he and Santana could, and he enjoyed it thoroughly, just as he enjoyed her closeness, the faint physical sensation of her hip and shoulder against him. Maybe it wasn’t sex, but sometimes, even a lack of platonic touch for an extended period, as much as Puck would never admit it aloud, could drive a guy to distraction. 

He lived with his mother and sister, but none of them were the hugging types with each other; their arguments were wars, and more often than not they spent their days passing each other like ghosts occupying space rather than flesh and blood humans with shared memories and genes. If it was lonely for Puck, under those circumstances, how much rougher must it be on Santana, living with Quinn and her nearly empty home with her mother?

“Please,” Santana scoffed in response to him, eyes rolling upward yet again, then sliding sideways to regard him, her mouth tipped somewhere between amusement and condescension. “No way you improved that dramatically in the past couple of years, unless you HAVE been popping steroids, and Viagra by the caseload too.”

“What, you want me to prove it? Name a time and place,” Puck returned, turning more fully towards her. 

He fully expected her to say something like “midnight in hell, at exactly the time the flames get frosty,” or some other sarcastic remark to indicate that his not even serious suggestion would never occur. But instead Santana looked him up and down, almost as though she were appraising him. Almost as if she were actually considering. And when she didn’t immediately respond, Puck, thrown, spoke up before her.

“Wait, Lopez, you actually considering?”

“You actually offering?” she leveled back, and now her eyes were directly on his, unflinching. 

Puck hesitated, briefly torn between backing down from what he assumed must still be some sort of strange Santana Lopez challenge, and maintaining his own image and pride…and what he couldn’t deny was some genuine desire. It had been a long time. There weren’t too many girls he’d deny outright. And Santana Lopez was hardly rough on the eyes, even if she sometimes was in the sack. 

It would be easy enough; few years or not, he knew that sex with her was a good time, even if in hindsight he now knew that the majority of her responses had been an act. It would be simple, with no complications, strings, or emotions attached- if she was genuinely willing, genuinely offering. It would be easier, even, than with any other girl, because Santana, as far as Puck knew, was still a lesbian. There was no danger of either of them growing overly attached or sentimental or getting their feelings hurt. They both knew exactly what to expect and who the other person was and what they wanted out of it; they would both understand that they were just helping each other get off, and that it was meaningless, beyond that. The more he considered, in those few seconds before his response, the better an idea it seemed- if Santana was serious.

“Babe, if you’re up for it, I’m not gonna turn you down,” he shrugged finally, keeping his tone light, but he was watching her, judging her reaction. “You saying you’d want to?”

She shrugged, and he saw the stirring of thoughts flit through her eyes as she came to a decision. And then she was putting her hand on his leg, high up his thigh, her fingertips stroking lightly in a manner that sent heat flaring up Puck’s groin.

“How long you lasting these days, Puckerman?”

“Long enough,” he promised, swallowing, and when her hand moved an inch up, he dared then to cover it with his, lightly squeezing her fingers, then slowly inching her hand across his thigh, closer to his groin. Santana let him, and Puck was sure she must hear his heart beginning to beat hard and fast in his chest, his breathing beginning to get just a little less steady. She must have, because she stood abruptly then, letting go of his hand, and let her usual smirk curve her lips.

“No offense, man, but I’m gonna need a drink for this.”

Puck laughed, shaking his head, but made no comments. It appeared that she was in fact not only serious but intent on actually following through, and he wasn’t about to question her reasons. If she needed a drink to forget the apparently pesky obstacle of being a lesbian, then he’d get her what she needed. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been drinking any of the times they’d had sex before…actually, now that he thought back to it, basically every time. Made sense in hindsight.

There was a mini fridge in one corner of the basement, and he loped over towards it, opening it and taking out two bottles of whiskey. Several shot glasses lined the fridge’s top, and he flicked two forward, pouring a shot for them both and holding one out for Santana to come retrieve. As she came forward, taking what he was offering into her hand, she cocked an eyebrow towards Puck’s shot, amused.

“What are you drinking for? You’re the one hitting the jackpot here, with all of this,” she emphasized her statement by running her free hand slowly down her side and across her chest. “No need for you to buzz the edges.”

Puck watched as she took the first shot, noticing the way she shuddered as its taste first hit, her body tensing up, and he could see the difference in how she held herself even a few seconds later; perhaps the first rush of warmth had hit. He answered before taking his own shot, having already through this through.

“Keeping you company. Not gonna have more than two, and you shouldn’t either. You’ve lost weight and you never could hold your alcohol anyway. If you’re totally blitzed it ain’t gonna be fun for either of us, so one more and you’re through, ‘kay ‘Tana?”

“Oh please, I can so,” Santana protested, reaching out to hit his chest, but he could already see the difference in how she held herself, and it looked as though she had staggered just a little as she stepped towards him. But the biggest give away was that she was not smirking, but outright smiling, in a way that Puck rarely saw from her anymore and doubted anyone else did either. Eyes squinted, nose scrunched up, dimples flickering into view in her cheeks, she was almost beaming even as she hit him again, arguing, and that was the biggest giveaway that already the alcohol had gone straight to her head. Still, he couldn’t exactly say he hated to see her smile. 

“I can, you’re the one who totally knocked over that whole table of food and fell into the pool table that time…and what about the time you knocked the vacuum into the pool ‘cause you were trying to vacuum up the leaves instead of using the net thingy and you about electrocuted yourself getting it out?” 

She snorted with laughter, half slumping into his side even as she reached out for the bottle of whiskey, apparently intending to pour a second shot. Puck smiled too, automatically wrapping an arm around her waist to support her, and then reached to pour the shot for her as he replied.

“No, Lopez, what I remember is you at that one party freshman year drinking five shots, trying to cry on Quinn’s lap until she pushed you away, asking some random dude with dreads if you were pretty, and then basically climbing my dick and falling asleep on top of me. And snoring. And drooling. Sexy.”

“I did not!” Santana half shouted, hitting him again, but she was still grinning, laughing, and she remained half slumped against him, her body warm and light against his as she accepted and drank her second shot. “You’re full of shit, Puckerman, I did not!”

As Puck took his second, he was aware of her pressing the side of her face into his chest, her hand gripping a fistful of his shirt. She felt very small beneath his arm, barely there, and yet he was very much aware of every part of her that happened to be touching him. As he set the shot glass down, then took hers out of her hand, wordlessly cutting her off, he heard her giggle, then audibly sniff him through his shirt.

“You smell like a dude,” she announced, and he felt her breath through his shirt as she giggled again. It was enough to send renewed heat through his chest and then lower down, almost uncomfortable with its intensity. “All sweaty and rough…you’re such a GUY.”

“Shut up, ‘Tana,” he responded, smirking.

She was already clearly well on her way to being drunk, if not there already, and he marveled to himself for a moment how easy it was for her, how little it took for her to already be affected. Puck himself couldn’t deny that he had been drinking more than usual since the biters began to crop up, and it definitely took more than two shots for him to even really feel any difference at all, let alone to behave differently. But Santana, arms wound around his waist, was still giggling into his chest, the noise muffled, very different behavior than he was accustomed to with her sober. Still smirking a little, Puck rubbed his hand up and down her back, exerting a little pressure to the touch so it was almost a massage, and then kissed the top of her head, then her temple, slowly working his way down the side of her face, closer to her throat.

“Think you’re through, babe,” he informed her, his own words a murmur now as he heard her repeat, the words not entirely understandable, something again about his smelling like a sweaty guy. 

He kissed her jawline, open mouthed, then her chin, deliberately avoiding her lips, at least for now. There were rules to this, Puck knew, unspoken as they might be, and unless further discussed or indicated, he would not break them. This was not about love or romance, though he did love Santana, in his own way, just as he thought she probably at least sort of, in her own Santana way, loved him as her lesbro or something along those lines. Regardless, this wasn’t about love in the sort of sense where he should be kissing her on the mouth, though that didn’t mean he couldn’t kiss her anywhere else. 

“Sweaty guy, huh…you want me to be a girl? Huh?” he murmured against the side of her neck, just below her jawline, as he began to kiss, then lightly suck her skin, slowly making his way to her pulse point. Her giggling had entirely stopped now, and he could hear the change in her breathing, feel her hot, suddenly shallow breaths against his face, feel Santana’s body relax further into his. Puck kept a supporting arm around her, holding her up, aware now of her heartbeat speeding up against him. He feels her nod just faintly, as though in answer to his question, though he had not expected one, and he is sure that if he pulled back to look at her, she would be closing her eyes.

He is used to Santana fighting for dominance, for her giving back every bit as aggressively as he might try to give. He is used to Santana’s nails digging into his skin, her hands squeezing his ass or biceps, creating leverage, or else covering his hands, trying to force them to go where and touch how she wants. But now she is passive against him, almost limp, and though she isn’t protesting, nor tensing up to his touch, she also is not participating. Puck hears a soft cry groan escape her, when he dips his tongue into the prominent hollow between her collar bones, one hand slowly stroking up her inner thigh and then drifting up to the zipper of her jeans, but it seems different somehow than he can remember from before. Since when does Santana Lopez let him have full control?

A faint sense of unease niggles at his thoughts, an odd prickling sensation coming over his chest, but Puck ignores it for now, undoing her jeans and slowly stroking the skin just within, not yet slipping further down. His free hand strokes down her side, then across to her right breast, lightly cupping it in his hand beneath her shirt and slowly rubbing her nipple with his thumb, noticing that it takes more time than most girl’s to grow hard at his touch. Kissing her neck again, he begins to back her, slowly towards the closest wall, where mats also happen to be placed. They can lie down on the mats, if needed, or they can do it against the wall; Puck has no preference, but he does like options. 

“Lay down or…?” he mutters against her, even as guides her back against the wall, having to shift his hand from her breast for a while to support her back. His other hand is already beginning to ease her jeans down towards her ankles as he waits for her response, but Santana makes a grunt of irritation, her body briefly tensing. When Puck pulls back a little, now looking into her face to try to see what she is responding to, what has rubbed her the wrong way, he notices that her eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that there is a wrinkle in each eyelid, that her lips are slightly parted, and there is a strange softness to her features, a vulnerability that makes him uncomfortable to look at, much less to try to assign meaning to.

“Shut up,” Santana whispers, and when her hand comes tentatively forward, grasping for him, he doesn’t fail to notice that she doesn’t touch him, but rather takes a fistful of his shirt, squeezing hard. In fact, Puck realizes, she hasn’t’ touched him at all, with her hands or with her mouth, since this all began. Face tilted upward, lips still parted, eyes still closed, she waits, breathing heavily, for him to continue, even slowly sliding her legs apart, as though intending to give him access. 

For a few seconds Puck hesitates, confused, even concerned. And then it dawns on him, the truth that he probably should have realized all along. The closed eyes, the lack of touching, her request right now for him not to talk…she’s not doing this with him, not in her mind. She’s doing this with someone else, with some girl, putting other faces, other voices, other lips and hands over his. She’s losing herself in a fantasy of what she really wants, and using him and his body to help make it that much more real.

For some people, this would have been an insult, maybe even a reason to stop then and there. But for Puck, it was only reasonable; in fact, it made a hell of a lot more sense than Santana suddenly deciding, after all this time and a shift in sexual orientation, to sleep with him again. And just because he had more of an understanding of what was really going on now didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy himself, or that he couldn’t help her to enjoy herself too. 

Resolving to do exactly that, Puck slid her panties down her hips, lightly tugging up each foot so he could remove jeans and underwear both and toss them aside. He didn’t bother to remove her shirt or bra, instead simply continuing to kiss her neck and shoulders sporadically as his hand rubbed at the skin of her inner thighs, trying to stimulate her to grow wet enough for him to go on. He feels her muscles twitch beneath his hand and a soft gasp escape her lips, and when he slips two fingers inside her, checking, she seems to be ready, if not as turned on as he’s made other girls. So this isn’t gonna be his best night, or probably hers either. It’s what he’s got to work with though, and he doesn’t hesitate much longer. 

Shimmying out of his pants somewhat awkwardly, Puck kicks them aside before returning his attentions back to her. He hears another odd noise emerge from Santana, something like a whimper, maybe even close to a sob as he places his hand on her bare hip, the other splayed across her opposite shoulder in an effort to support her as he enters. He disregards the noise for the moment, even when Santana’s hand gripping his shirt slides up his ribs and then grasps his shoulder, squeezing so hard he can feel her longer fingernails piercing his skin, actually causing him pain. And then he is inside her, pushing carefully, his own eyes half shut as a grunt of pleasure at the friction escapes him. She’s so tight…

But he can feel her body stiffen against him, her nails digging even harder into his skin, and even without looking Puck knows that her eyes are still closed. She still has not kissed him at all, has not returned any sort of sexual touch throughout the duration, and although she is not trying to push him away, isn’t protesting at all, neither does she really seem to be participating. In fact, he hears her breath hitch when he thrusts into her, a shuddering sound that is nearly a sob, and even as he readjusts his angle, hoping that this will help, she doesn’t seem to be getting any pleasure from this. If anything, seems to be tolerating, even enduring. 

“San…you okay? Not hurting you…right?” he grunted out, but Santana does not verbally respond. She is still digging her nails into him, hard enough that Puck dully suspects she is tearing his shirt, and when he hears her sob again, he knows that whatever is going on with her, what he’s doing obviously isn’t working out for her. 

He isn’t sure if he’s hurting her or if she’s just not feeling the moment, if she’s too drunk and has reached the crying stage she always inevitably seems to circle around too when intoxicated, or if her fantasy just isn’t able to be reconciled with the reality of who he actually is. But whatever the case, he can feel Santana starting to shake against him, her shaky breaths becoming more and more obviously suppressed sobs, and he can’t do this anymore. Whatever he wants, regardless of the fact that neither of them really have gotten off at all, he can’t keep trying with her when she’s clearly seconds away from bursting into tears. Not cool, and definitely not sexy.

Groaning, he pulled out from her, then let go of her entirely. Sucking in his breath, Puck briefly massaged himself, trying to work out the pain now beginning to spread dully through his groin at the lack of release. When he finishes himself off several seconds later, unsatisfying but having accomplished what he needed, he breathes in again, bracing himself, and then looks down at Santana, who was still slumped, standing, against the wall. She was shaking, head bowed, hands limp and loose at her sides, but even with her hair half concealing her face, he could see the tears silently streaking down her cheeks, escaping through still closed lids. Her lips were quivering, and every few seconds she gave another barely held back sob. 

Looking at her, it seemed very obvious to Puck that all of this had been a very, very bad idea. 

Puck exhales, looking at Santana; she is still standing, leaned back against the wall, but he can see that the muscles of her legs are twitching, as though cramped, and she appears on the verge of collapse. She says nothing, and doesn’t look his way, tears still coming steadily. She seems incapable of redressing herself, incapable of even attempting to explain to him what she is thinking or feeling or what she needs, and this means that he will have to guess for himself. 

It was obvious what she hadn’t needed. She hadn’t needed sex, at least not with a guy…not with him. She hadn’t needed him to touch her like he had. She definitely hadn’t needed to drink, and now all of this was piling up within her, bringing her to this point, and Puck didn’t know what to do.

He was pretty sure that Santana had been the one to suggest all this in the first place. He definitely hadn’t tried to persuade her or force her hand. But that didn’t make him feel any better, in the moment, looking at her in her clear misery; it wasn’t exactly great for his ego, but even more than that, it made him feel guilt, even shame. Should he have known better, than to take her up on her offer, given their circumstances, given the woman that he knew Santana to be? Should he have realized or predicted that this would happen, and refused her? 

He, Noah Puckerman, refusing a hot woman offering him sex. The idea sounded ludicrous to even consider. But this wasn’t just a “hot woman,” this was Santana Lopez; this was his friend. And weird as it seemed, Puck did feel responsible for her reaction…he did feel as if he should have known, somehow, to give her something else instead, something that she more genuinely needed.

Exhaling aloud, he reached for the towel Santana had thrown down earlier and cleaned himself off, then, kneeling in front of Santana, gently cleaned her off as well, taking time to lightly stroke her inner thighs with it a little longer than was necessary, hoping that the gesture would help calm her down. Santana didn’t tense up or push him away, nor did she draw her legs closed, but he saw a shiver pass over her features, and her tears didn’t stop, the sob she tried to suck back then a little more audible than before. Puck tossed the towel aside, then reached for his pants and underwear, hastily pulling them back on and zipping and buttoning the jeans. Santana’s were a little further apart, but he went to get them too, then, looking up towards her as though to silently ask for permission, began to ease her underwear up her legs, then her jeans, redressing her. She didn’t protest or pull away, but she didn’t help make it easier for him either. When her jeans were rebuttoned and rezipped, Puck stood himself, and sliding an arm around Santana’s shoulders, eased her down to the mat, back against the wall, and pulled her against his side. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask her what was going on in her head or her heart. He just sat beside her, arm wound around her, and waited. He didn’t know what else to do.

As it turned out, that may have been exactly what she wanted, or maybe just what she needed. Because as soon as he sat down with her, Santana’s crying began to pick up in volume and intensity, and the tears that had been quiet, simply seeping, became a near flood. Her face scrunching up, she began to weep aloud, her breath coming in gasping sobs, she turned more fully into the circle of Puck’s arm, burying her face in the crook where his neck joined his shoulder and grasping him tightly. One arm locked around his neck, the other wound around his waist so fiercely he could feel her breasts flattening out against his ribcage, her heart beating wildly in her chest, Santana cried, almost whimpering out the first words he had heard from her since their sexual encounter first began.

“S-Sorry…I’m…I’m s-sorry…fucked up…s-so f-f-fucked up…fucking hell, FUCKED UP,” is the most coherent words he can understand, and they are accompanied by an increased outbreak of sobbing so intense Puck actually worries she’s going to choke on her own breaths. 

Beginning to rub her back, his touch firm, slightly pressured, in a circle between her shoulder blades, Puck tried to calm her down, to make Santana focus on something other than her misery. He tightened his other arm around her, sliding it lower to encircle her waist rather than her shoulders to give himself more access to rub, and began to rock them both back and forth in slow, rhythmic, if somewhat awkward motion, molding her as closely into his chest as she would allow. It reminded him vaguely of his efforts to soothe Beth, when she had cried as a younger infant and toddler, and because of this it felt familiar, somehow right. Remembering this, Puck continued to rock, to rub slow circles on Santana’s back, and began to talk quietly into her ear as well, just as he had with Beth.

“Hey. Hey, San, it’s okay. S’okay. Gonna be okay. I got you, see? Gonna be okay.”

Gradually he can feel her relaxing into him, the sobs shuddering through her frame becoming occasional shivers instead, and the hot tears and sticky mucus soaking his shirt and the skin beneath begins to lessen, then stop too. When he feels her merely sniffling against him, almost entirely limp, Puck stops rocking her, stops trying to say anything back to her either. He holds her, continuing to rub her back almost absently now, and lets his thoughts drift apart from Santana, further beyond the scope of her and her immediate pain to encompass them all.

Whatever was happening in the world at large, whether or not it was doomed for good, their personal worlds had permanently been devastated. Although comparatively, Puck knew he had gotten off lightly, even he had not been untouched; how could be think himself unaffected, when an otherwise uneventful Saturday afternoon would end with him holding a sobbing ex-girlfriend on his basement floor, not disappointed, but saddened, after one of the most fucked up sexual encounters, no pun intended, he had ever experienced?

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to pull away. He lets Santana hide her face against him, lets her keep her arms around him for as long as she needs or will tolerate, and waits for her to make the next move. 

It isn’t a very large one, when it finally comes; she shifts her face away from him, just barely, and takes a slow breath in, coughing slightly against his shoulder and then sniffling audibly as she takes another, more even breath again. Her grip around Puck’s waist loosens then, but she still doesn’t pull back, and her voice is hoarse and scratchy when she speaks. 

“I’m tired.”

The words are simple, soft, and straightforward, but seem to Puck so much heavier than their literal meaning. Of course she’s tired, in so many more ways than physically. Just hearing her acknowledge it aloud seems to send a sudden, heavy weariness over his own body, his own thoughts, and he nods, acknowledging, and briefly kisses the top of her head. 

“Yeah. I get that.”

He pulls back then, despite Santana’s momentary wordless protests, her efforts to tighten her grip and pull him back down again. Still Puck persists, gently breaking her hold with soft touches of her arms to push them back. He stands, moving to the rack where clean towels are tossed haphardly, and removes several, carrying them back to where Santana remains, slumped half over, on the mats. Letting them drop, he reaches out to her again, taking her by the shoulders and easing her down onto the mat beneath them. Santana lets him, lying down willingly enough, and when Puck begins to fold the towels over her, including one beneath her head for a pillow, she watches him, brow furrowed, seeming confused.

“Why don’t you take a nap a while, ‘Tana?” he clarifies, as he folds the last towel over her feet. “Just lie down and go to sleep. Be right here, okay?”

She watches him, still frowning, but then her eyes slowly close, and she curls into a loose fetal position on her side. Puck readjusts the towels when they shift, reaching to smooth her hair back from her face, and then back away, watching her briefly, before returning to the bench she had abandoned, slowly fitting his own feet in the pedals. 

There seems nothing left to do except to continue his workout without her, to lose some of the anger and sadness and fear for her, for him, for everyone in their lives that has settled over him like a dark blanket that cannot be shaken. As Puck begins to strain against the weights, putting more and more heavy ones on until he is straining, sweating, and shaking with effort, he thinks he hears her whispering. Looking towards her, he grunts out her name, letting the weights come down, but Santana’s eyes are closed even as she mumbles again.

“Thanks… love you Puckerman even though you gots a penis…no more sex again…and no zombies can eat you…not gonna tell anyone you were nice….don’t tell anyone…”

He waits, half smirking, for her to clarify what he isn’t supposed to tell- that she slept with him? That she’s upset? That she said she loved him, however it was she meant that, or if she even meant it at all? But Santana never responded, her words trailing off, face slacking as she gave into sleep, and as Puck returned to his workout, he knew it didn’t really matter. 

Within a few hours she would probably wake up and pull herself back together, make a few wisecrack comments, and he would retort back, giving back as good as he got. Within a few hours they would both likely pretend that nothing had happened, and maybe in Santana’s mind or memory, nothing had. Within a few hours they would both go back to fighting for normalcy in a world where this was no longer possible, but for now, Puck remained near, frequently looking over to watch her sleep, and even in spite of it all, didn’t resent this role at all.

End


End file.
